


You're a shark and I'm swimming

by orphan_account



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse, The Tribes of Palos Verdes (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Car Accidents, F/M, Minor Character Death, Twincest, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 22:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Something's happening to Medina. An AU inspired by the horror movie Raw (2017).





	You're a shark and I'm swimming

**Author's Note:**

> The plot and characters of ToPV belong to IFC films. The plot of Raw (2017) belongs to Wild Bunch and Focus World. 
> 
> Title from Alt-J's "Tessellate."
> 
> Mind the tags, please. Watch the ToPV deleted scenes to understand the Medina/Heather confrontation reference. 
> 
> All mistakes are my own.

Medina meets Jim’s eyes over the top of the campfire flames and they have one of their conversations—without words—all scowls and heated glances. She tries not to flinch when he turns away. He’s still pissed with her then. _Fine_.

It isn’t as if they haven’t been in similar situations before. Jim’s always frustrated with her disinterest in socializing, her inability to connect with anyone but him. He’d been so in her face about attending this party that she’d lashed out and accused him of inviting her under false pretenses. Of just wanting to prove to his friends how much of a freak she really is. 

He’d been offended of course, blustering on about the nerve of her to suggest that he’d do something like that. He likes to pretend that he’s a "nice guy.” But nice guys don’t hang out with the Bay Boys and they certainly don’t get cracked out and threaten people for wanting to surf on a _public_ beach. 

If she’s being honest with herself, Medina doesn’t really know what kind of guy Jim is these days or where she sits with him.

The shit with mom has been hard. She doesn’t blame him for finding a way to cope. But does he have to be such an asshole? Some days it seems like—like he’s pushing her away. Like he’s found her out and is doing his best to discourage her before it gets any worse. Ridiculous, maybe…but Medina doesn’t like the feeling she’s getting. She’s been more cautious lately about starting at him; about imagining his lips on hers.

It’s hard to keep her distance when he still stumbles into her room most nights, high as a kite and looking for affection. The way that he touches her and looks at her like she’s the best thing that he’s ever seen messes with her head. She forgets herself. 

The incident with Heather at the mall the other day was a major fuck up. The dumb bitch had almost certainly told Jim what she said about his preference in pubic hair. Medina smirks in remembrance of Heather's face. _Priceless_.

_Maybe this is my punishment?_ Medina thinks, watching Heather taste the lower lip that she covets. If it is, she has to commend Jim on choosing something guaranteed to wound.

Anger rises, quickly smothered. She’s spent years affecting cool indifference. All she has to do is survive the last few weeks of summer and then she’ll be starting college in the next town over. There will be lots of distractions there.

Medina hears Jim moan and feels sick. Pushing up from the log that she’s sitting on, Medina brushes off the sand clinging to the seat of her pants and turns to leave. If she goes now, while Jim's occupied, he might not be angry (more angry) that she’s ditched.

A hand lands on her shoulder before she can take a single step away. “Not leaving so soon are you?” Chad, the thirty-year-old loser/ring leader of the Bay Boy’s asks. “We haven’t even got to the initiation yet.”

Medina blinks at him and sighs, “what are you talking about?”

Chad forces her back down on the log and plunks himself down beside her. “Jimbo didn’t tell you?” he says, leering at Medina's cleavage. “All of the Bay Boys and _associated_ _parties _have to partake in a little bonding activity tonight.”

Another boy—Alex?—slaps a Tupperware container down over her legs. “What? I have to eat your mom’s shitty casserole?" Medina snarks.

Chad laughs at her like she’s done a trick and bops her nose with a finger that stinks of weed. “If you want to keep surfing on our beach you do.”

Leaning in close, he pries the lid off of the container and grabs a slice of something so thin it’s almost transparent. “Fugu,” Chad breathes, dangling the morsel in front of her face. “Shit’ll kill you if it’s not prepared properly. Lucky for us, Alex’s brother is a sushi chef at that fancy place downtown.” 

Medina leans as far away from Chad as she can without falling off of the log. She casts her eyes around and sees that they’ve finally caught Jim’s attention. He’s staring at them with a small frown on his face. “What the hell, Jim!” she asks. “Did you know about this?”

Jim’s expression darkens, though his eyes beseech her. “Just do what he says Medina. It’s just a piece of fish.”

What the fuck?He brought her here just so she could take part in some stupid hazing ritual? _And he had the audacity to get angry about me questioning his motives_. Spine stiffening with righteous indignation, Medina pushes Chad’s arm away and says, “I’m a vegetarian, dickwad. Our whole family is. I’m not eating that.”

Jim’s up and circling around the fire to them then. A long fingered hand reaches out a grabs the fish angrily from Chad. Jim shoves the meat into his mouth whole and chews viciously. “There,” he declares, “no big fucking deal. Just eat it, Medina.” 

Medina shakes her head mulishly and tries not to sway into Jim when he leans down toward her and puts his lips by her ear. A gust of hot breath sends shivers up her spine. _Not fair_.

“Just do this for me. Please? They won’t let you surf the rest of the summer if you don’t.” 

In this moment, Medina loathes him. Hates him intensely for the way that she falters at his murmured plea, a drowning dinosaur sinking into tar. She chokes on memories of other entreaties; pudgy fingers wrapping around her own and leading her on grand adventures.

Jim brings another piece of fish to her mouth and she opens her lips for him obediently. Yields, but only for her twin. 

The flesh is bitter and tears like tissue paper between her teeth. She barely swallows before bile starts rising up her throat.

Recognizing the panicked widening of her eyes, Jim leads Medina away from the others and rubs her back comfortingly while she empties her stomach. The drunken cheers of the Bay Boys ring in Medina's ears as she heaves. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur. Medina drinks a lot more beer than she usually does to dull the taste of fish and sick that lingers in her mouth.

Pleasantly, Jim is a lot more demonstrative with her. He looms close by and keeps a hand on her shoulder or in the small of her back. It feels natural; right. She reminds herself that it doesn’t mean anything to him. Not like it does to her. Still, she revels in his closeness. The nasty look that she throws Heather the next time they lock eyes can’t be helped.

\--

An itching buzz. The sudden scurry of ants beneath her skin.

Medina wakes in the middle of the night and tears up her thighs and belly, scratching hard with her nails. It takes a moment for her brain to register the feedback from her fingertips.

Raised bumps and scorching heat.

Alarmed, Medina turns on her bedside lamp with one hand and throws the covers off of her legs with the other. She sucks in a sharp, hissing breath and screams.

Her eyes stare with unblinking horror at the blistered red rash that’s appeared on her skin. “Mom!” she yells frantically. It’s an immediate reaction to cry out for her mother, seeking a comforting touch and soft words.

Seconds later, Sandy comes flying into the room in her bathrobe and scolds Medina for trying to wake up Jim. Medina remembers then that her mother might not be so responsive to her distress. She’s not the favourite these days, just the spare. The cheating husband sympathizer.

Sandy runs dismissive eyes over the rash and tells her that it’s probably from splashing around in the surf.

“Put some calamine lotion on it and I’ll take you to see your father tomorrow,” she says, already drifting out of the room. Medina catches her muttering about Jim needing to practice Phil's ‘stupid doctor scrawl.’

With no better ideas, Medina pads noiselessly down hall to the bathroom (wouldn’t want to wake Jim) to follow her mother’s advice. She swipes a pink stained cotton ball along her legs and swallows down the saliva that’s suddenly pooling her in mouth. Her stomach growls, reminding her that she’d puked up her dinner earlier.

Acknowledging it is a bad idea. Now eating is all that Medina can think about. God, her stomach feels like it’s eating itself. She’s not even sure what she’s hungry for. Something indistinct. Something filling.

Medina leaves the lights off in the kitchen when she checks the fridge for leftovers. Sandy had said something about making a mexi-veg-casserole that morning.

The pan is easy enough to find on the top shelf. Medina digs into the casserole enthusiastically and stuffs a forkful in her mouth. She chews once and frowns. The bean and noodle mixture is completely unpalatable. It tastes like sawdust and the texture is all wrong.

Medina spits her mouthful into the garbage and goes aback to perusing the fridge. But there’s nothing interesting. Nothing she wants. The continued gurgling of her stomach drives her into a pair of pants and a coat. 

It’s quiet walking over to the convenience store in the dark. The street is completely empty at this time of the night. Strangely, Medina doesn’t feel afraid, just expectant about what she might find at the store.

The scent of hot dogs cooking reaches her before she rounds the corner. Hunger hits again, a sledgehammer to the middle. Nausea follows swiftly behind it as Medina realizes that she’s craving meat.

What is wrong with her?

She’s never had an interest in hot dogs before. She's been a vegetarian for as long as she can remember. If Sandy had ever broken down and fed them meat, Medina can’t recall an instance. 

This change in her appetite is unsettling. She doesn’t like the way that it undoes the carefully constructed image that she holds of herself.

Off balance, Medina flees back to the house and the safety of her bedroom. She knows who she is there. Has no trouble controlling her urges within those four walls. She’s had practice, after all.

\--

The sky is uncharacteristically overcast when Medina crawls out of bed the next morning and drags herself down the hall in search of caffeine. She’s just about to bring a hot mug of coffee to her lips when she feels something brush along the top of her leg. Abdominals contracting with a sharp inhale, Medina turns her head to the side and sees Jim looking at her with concern.

“Jesus, Jim! You scared the shit out of me,” Medina breathes, setting her cup back on the counter. She eyes the dark circles under her twin's eyes and says, “what are you doing up before noon anyway? Usually you’re dead to the world after a bender.”

Jim ignores the remark. His eyes are fixed on her skin. “What’s wrong? Why are you covered in pink stuff?” he asks, kneeling down. He runs the hand touching Medina down the outside of her thigh.

Medina tenses. Her slight gasp is loud in the quiet of the room. He has to stop doing that. The proprietary touching.

Looking down over the top of Jim's head, Medina notices that her rash is completely gone. All that’s left are the chalky streaks of the calamine lotion. “What the fuck…” she whispers, pulling up her tank top to check her belly. The rash is gone there too.

_Weird. Really fucking weird._

“I swear to God, I got some horrible rash last night. Maybe it was a reaction to that stuff you made me eat,” Medina says, shifting her eyes to meet Jim's gaze. Jim’s hand spasms above her knee at the reminder of his shitty behaviour. Medina's breathing comes quick and light as tension hums between them. 

“What stuff did Jim make you eat?” Sandy asks, breezing into the kitchen.

Jim flinches back at the sound of her voice and stands. Medina’s blinks frantically, brain scrambling for some excuse. Sandy's surprisingly lucid this morning. She’s even dressed herself. This could get tricky.

“Oh, Jim’s girlfriend baked him some cookies that taste like shit. He made me eat one on the way home last night. Maybe I’m developing an allergy to nuts?” Medina tells Sandy. She turns herself so that Sandy can see her midsection. “Look, my rash is all gone.”

Sandy frowns and tuts, “you should be more careful what you put in your mouth.” She’s looking at Jim.

“Guess we won’t need to see dad today,” Medina gusts, already moving out of the kitchen. “Oh well, I better get to work. I’m going to be late for my shift.” She doesn’t pause to see how the comment lands. Jim will be there, like he always is, to clean up the mess.

\-- 

If Medina’s a little gruff with the customers during her shift at the public library, it’s because she hasn’t eaten in twenty hours and she can’t scrape up any more civility. The coffee she keeps splashing in her empty stomach doesn’t help.

When it’s time for her break, she doesn’t hesitate to grab her jacket and hightail it out to her car. There’s a grocery store a few blocks over that sells a killer minestrone. 

Despite the thoughts of soup dancing in her head, Medina avoids the deli and wanders aimlessly between the aisles. She’s got that strange hunger again. A gnawing want. She remembers the smell of the convince store hot dogs and suppresses a shudder. 

It’s not completely surprising when she winds up in the meat section. At least her crazy is consistent.

The different kinds of proteins, in their cellophane and Styrofoam packaging, are strangely tantalizing. Medina hovers over a pound of ground beef and imagines sinking her hands into the burger, squeezing the meat between her fingers and licking up the greasy residue.

She grabs a flat of chicken breasts instead.

Long strides carry her toward the self-checkouts at the front of the store. Medina keeps her head tilted down, avoiding eye contact with the housewives and grannies perusing the shelves. It’s irrational, but she can’t help but feel like her thoughts are plastered all over her face.

She pays and leaves the store without incident.

Sitting in her car in the mostly deserted parking lot, Medina swallows nervously and stares at the package in her hands. The chicken doesn’t look like much. Just cold blobs of meat. There are slight striations in the tissue. 

Desperation wriggles under ribs and coats her tongue. _Fuck it._ _Salmonella might be worth it_.

Ripping through the cellophane is easy. _Skin would be tougher_, Medina thinks with something close to indifference. 

A pause.

Her eyelashes flutter, hunger twisting her belly into cramps. Medina flares her nostrils and catches the tang of old chicken blood in the air. She imagines the burst of hot iron in her mouth instead.

Instinct overwhelms reason. She grasps a chicken breast with a shaking hand and tears into it with her teeth.

Cold. Slick. Flesh.

Medina works her jaws aggressively, enjoying the texture of the meat as it separates and shreds. She swallows. 

_Peace_. 

The word breaks in her chest, warmth and terror. Medina eats all of the meat in her hand and dives in for seconds. She eats and eats until everything is gone and revels in the satiation. 

\--

Medina moves through the rest of her day with a slightly spaced feel. She keeps waiting for the shame, the little voice that says, _"you’re fucked in the head. Broken. Wrong." _

It doesn’t come.

When she gets home later that afternoon, Jim isn’t there. Medina's thankful. He always sees too much, tries too hard to smooth out her jagged edges. 

If the Styrofoam plate weren't still sitting in her car, Medina might think that the whole thing at lunch was a fever dream.

Thoroughly spooked, she hides in her room with her laptop and searches the internet for everything that she can find on fugu.

The first few results on google link to articles about food poisoning. Tetrodotoxin produced by bacteria in the fish induces paralysis and coma. There's nothing about a desire to consume flesh.

_Fuck._

What is happening to her? Even now, a sense of deprivation scrapes at Medina from the inside. Eating the chicken was satisfying, but it wasn’t _right_. It wasn’t what she really wanted.

If only she had a clue about what that was. 

“Goddamnit,” Medina sighs, closing the laptop and pulling at her hair. She’s not getting anywhere.

There’s no one to appreciate her entrance when she stalks into the kitchen, fuming. No dishes are piled in the sink and the dishwasher is empty. Medina wonders if Sandy fed herself at all today. 

Worried that her mother's hit a depressive low, Medina heads to the master bedroom and knocks cautiously on the door. There’s no answer.

What she finds on the other side of the door is not what she's expecting. Sandy’s standing in the middle of the room, trying to cut herself out of a pair of Spanx. Her hair's a mess and she's muttering to herself under her breath. _Jesus Christ. She looks deranged._

The low noise of concern Medina makes alerts her mother to her presence. Sandy whips her head up and pins Medina with tear filled eyes. 

“Your father bought these for me, you know,” she grits. She gestures with the pair of scissors in her hand. “You’re so young and pretty. Find someone who loves you for who you are on the inside, not your face. People get tired of faces.”

_And what if you’re rotten on the inside?_ Medina thinks. 

Sandy’s next slash at the support garment is particularly vicious. The pointed ends of the scissors swoop through the sateen fabric and jam into her leg. Blood snakes down her thigh from the wound, soaking the carpet. "Oops," Sandy giggles softly. She drops into a dead faint.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Medina breathes. She doesn’t know what to do. Should she call an ambulance? Dad?

Sandy's still breathing, _thank fuck_. Her chest raises and lowers with shallow pants and her pulses thrums under Medina's fingertips when she checks. Satisfied that her mother's not dying, Medina bends down to take a closer look at the wound. It’s not actually that bad. The blades are juststuck in, a few centimetres deep. If what she remembers from high school biology class is correct, they probably didn’t hit any major vessels.

A hazy fog clouds Medina’s brain. The tiny, shivery sound of realization that Sandy made when she stabbed herself echo’s in her ears. _She should—should stop the bleeding. Yeah._

Medina moves with haste into the en-suite bathroom and rips open the vanity doors. _Bingo_. Dad didn’t take his first aid kit with him when he left. She adds a hand towel to her supplies and comes back to kneel beside Sandy's sprawled form.

Jerking the scissors out is easy, there’s no resistance. They hadn’t sunk in deep enough to embed in the muscle. Medina watches blood well and spill over from the divot in Sandy's leg and comes to the conclusion that no arteries have been nicked. She applies pressure to the wound and the cotton fibres of the towel turn from cream to red. Errantly, she wonders if her mother's going to be pissed about the stain. 

Sandy rouses when Medina’s smoothing the last butterfly bandage into place. “How bad is it?” she croaks.

Medina tries to smile but her face feels stiff. “Not even. I don’t think you need stitches.”

A clammy hand cups her face. Sandy clears her throat and says, “thank you, baby, for looking after me." Medina feels her spine start to sag at the kind words and touch. She savours both with the understanding that they won't last. 

She quirks a blonde brow wryly. “Yeah, well, Jim’s not the only one who cares.”

Quietly, Medina retreats and closes the bedroom door behind her. Standing in the hallway, heart hammering in her chest, she takes a cleansing breath. Quickly, surreptitiously, she licks her mother’s blood off of her thumb.

It's delicious.

\-- 

A text comes in from one of Medina's co-workers around 8:30pm. There’s a party at a beach a few miles away. Medina thinks about heading to bed early, about what she might see in her dreams, and decides that a few hours with Mark is the lesser of two evils. She doesn’t have to be at the library until noon tomorrow anyway.

She takes her time getting ready and leaves a sandwich, tempeh and tomato, Sandy’s favourite, in the fridge before she heads out. She tells herself it's not an apology.

\--

The party’s great. The energy and the heat of the dancing bodies around her draw Medina in. It’s animalistic. Primal.

But she keeps thinking about that blood. Keeps wondering what might have happened if Sandy hadn't woken up when she did. The possibility lurks in her all night, calling her away from the partying, pulling at her darkly.

She tries to ignore it. Tries to focus on the fun evening that’s much healthier for her than this obsession. This sickness.

_What if it had been Jim bleeding on the floor?_

The thought of putting her mouth against his skin, of sinking her teeth in, drives Medina mad. She spends the whole evening aroused and trying not to show it. Her nipples don't get the message. They peak eagerly against her crop top and confuse Mark, who starts gauging if she’s interested in him.

Medina's not. She can’t spare a thought for his auburn hair and freckles. But she kisses him anyway, trying to drive her longing for Jim out of her head.

It feels…nice. Not great, but nice. Medina forces herself to suck on Mark’s tongue and he growls, manhandling her away from the crowd. He runs his hands over the skin exposed by her top and pushes her back against a tree. The movement is harsh and causes the back of her head to thud painfully against the bark.

Medina breaks away from the kiss and gasps, “ow, what the fuck?”

Mark tries to paw at her breasts and she swats his hands away. “Oh, come on Medina," he whines. "You’ve been teasing me all night." A knee slides in between her legs and presses insistently against her sex. Medina stops squirming and turns her face away from him.

Whiskey-soaked breath puffs over her earlobe. “I know you’re not as boring as you seem, it’s always the quiet ones,” Mark whispers. He ignores the way that she’s stiffened and goes for the button on her jeans.

“Hey! No. _No_. Stop it!” Medina says, flattening herself further against the tree. Mark grunts with frustration. “I just want to finger you a little.” The words sink like lead in Medina's belly. This isn’t what she wants. She cringes inwards, trying to make herself look smaller.

Something rears in her chest at the action. This is wrong. 

_I'm not prey. _

Calm floods Medina and the tension in her body dissipates. She lifts her chin defiantly and grabs Marks face, bringing his mouth back to hers. He closes his eyes, anticipating a kiss, and misses the way that her teeth snap out to close around his bottom lip. Medina bites down hard and tugs, taking a chunk of his flesh.

Hot iron fills her mouth. Her eyes fall to a content half mast as she swallows. 

_Divine._

“You dumb bitch!” Mark wails with a pronounced lisp. “What the fuck is the matter with you!” He jerks back from her and cradles his face in his hands. Medina can see his bottom teeth through the gap that she’s made in his lip. Serves him right.

“You bit me!” Mark yells in disbelief. She blinks at him and smiles a bloody grin. Her would be rapist flinches at the sight of her red-coated teeth and stumbles away, presumably to his car.

Medina feels high, skin tingling with adrenaline and fresh arousal. Is this what Jim feels like all the time? _God_. Her sex dampens in her pants, flowering at the thought of her violence. Mark made such beautiful sounds with her teeth in his flesh. 

Melting against the wood at her back, Medina works a hand down her front. She brushes over a nipple on the way to her clit and moans.

No one can hear her over the music from the party, so she can be as loud as she wants. The idea excites her. Unlike her usual fumbling in the shower at home—guiltily huffing the scent of Jim’s shower gel—she can draw this out and really enjoy it. With that thought in her mind, Medina pulls at the button and fly on her pants and dives inside.

She hadn’t worn panties underneath.

The first touch of her folds is bliss. She gets a little bit lost after that, fingers slipping and sliding through her delicate tissues; stoking the sensation building in her core until she feels set to burst.

Medina's riding the ridge, delaying her own gratification, when awareness of someone nearby prickles over her skin. A whimper rather than a scream leaves her lips when a shadow detaches from the bushes across from her.

_Jim_. 

Of course he's here. 

The thrill of it overtakes Medina until she can’t think, only breathe. She blinks and he's there, wrapping a hand around the wrist still flexing and working her fingers in her pants. His face is severe. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he spits.

The menace in his voice…Medina shivers, circles a fingertip around her clit and shatters in front of him with a soft mewl. “What does it look like?” she pants, chest heaving as aftershocks from her orgasm roll through her.

Medina pulls her hand out of her jeans and, feeling bold, sucks at the slick on her fingers before dropping them at her side. Jim’s eyes widen. He licks his lips. “Alex said that you came over here with some dude from the library. Where is he?”

Her mouth sets. “Does it matter?” 

“Fuck, Medina. You can’t just wander off with random guys at parties. Did he fuck you and leave you here alone to get off?” Jim leans in close and cups her cheeks. “Is that blood on your face? Jesus Christ!”

Medina shakes her head in the cage of his hands. “Does. It. Matter," she says through clenched teeth. 

“Yeah,” Jim tells her, his brows pinched. “It matters. I couldn’t…You can’t. No.”

“Why not?” Medina pushes. She’s tired of this. Tired of pretending that she doesn’t lose all capacity for thought when she looks at his hands. His mouth. He’s beautiful to her, his every movement and expression perfect. She needs to know if he can ever feel the same.

Better now than never. _Maybe I'm dying_, Medina thinks hysterically. Maybe she’s caught some mad-cow type disease and her brain’s turning to mush. Would he miss her? She read somewhere that twins can die of a broken heart.

Jim flinches like she's slapped him. His eyes swim with frustrated tears. “You can’t—everyone’s trying to take you away from me. Dad. Other guys. And you just go along with it. Let them lead you away like you don’t know. Don’t know exactly…”

“What, Jim? What don’t I know?” she snarls.

“That you’re mine. You said we’re a tribe!” he shouts at her, voice breaking. "You're all I need!"

It’s Medina’s turn to seize his face. “How was I supposed to know?” she says, close to tears herself. “You never pay attention to me anymore. You haven’t cared what I do or when…And _you. _It’s just drugs and Heather these days, Jim.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry," he sobs. "You’re the only one who matters. I just get so angry I want to disappear.” Jim hides his face in her neck and shakes, whispering her name over and over again.

Medina murmurs his name softy, curls her fingers around his shoulders and slowly, gently eases him back. Tears slick his flushed cheeks. She wants to taste that salt on his skin.

Jim catches the movement of her tongue swiping over her lips and his pupils blow wide. “Kiss me,” Medina says, and he does.

Jim runs one hand up her back and tangles the fingers of the other in her long hair. Medina closes her eyes as matching cupid’s bow lips meet hers. The glory of it pours through her and she rises on her toes, greedily pressing closer. She wants to catalogue every nuance of his taste and texture.

Her hands fist in Jim's shirt before sliding under, seeking skin.

She finds smooth warmth that yields perfectly to the scrape of her nails. Jim quakes at the sensation of her raking down his back and breaks away from the kiss to rest his forehead against hers. They lock eyes again, glittering blue and wild brown.

“Fuck me, Jim,” Medina begs, voice tight with years of repressed desire. “Make me yours.”

Need throbs in her, makes her tongue curl behind her teeth. She nips at his chest suddenly, under the cruel pressure to let some of that need out. Jim makes a hungry sound at the action and hooks his fingers in the waistband of her jeans. He pushes them down roughly to pool around her ankles and Medina kicks off a shoe to liberate one tan leg.

Shivering in the darkness and at the feel of tree bark against her ass, she widens her stance and bares her sex to his gaze. Jim groans, "fuck, Medina." He rubs a hand through the silky, softness of her cunt, spreading her arousal along her folds. They open invitingly under his touch. He looks so wondering, so vulnerable at the feel of her wetness. So _hers_.

A delightfully blunt finger slips down to her entrance and inside of her, probing her walls. Medina rips at Jim's jeans. “Yesss,” she hisses. “Please."

Jim's happy to oblige her. He curls another long finger inside of Medina as she succeeds in undoing his pants. Impatient, she forces her way past his underwear and gets a hand on his cock.

Jim swears. “Shit. That feels so good,” he breathes as she squeezes his throbbing shaft.

Medina brushes her thumb through the precome beading at his tip and purrs, “you like that.” 

Jim withdraws his fingers from her entrance, bats her hand away and slots his hips between her thighs. Medina nearly sobs at the scorching brand of his erection against her sex. “I like that a lot,” Jim sighs. The vibrations in his voice are irresistible. Medina arches against him and locks her arms around his neck.

“Yeah?” she asks. Jim catches her when she jumps up into his arms. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Medina clenches her legs around Jim's hips and he growls. He's gentle when he presses her back against the wood. Achingly tender when he eases his cock inside of her. All of her inner muscles tighten on that slow slide, first at the foreignness of his entrance into her and then at the desire to have more of it, harder, faster.

Medina shifts her hips a little, helping them find their fit, and pants at the carnal pleasure that suffuses her brain.

Jim feels perfect. Fills up all of her empty spaces.

Her love, her foil, her twin.

“Mine,” she says, clenching around him. Jim's eyes try to roll back in his head. "Yours," he confirms. He wheezes like the feel of her is killing him and surges forward.

Medina likes killing him like this. Feeling him move against her, their hips rocking in counterpoint to each other. It makes her feel giddy and powerful.

Assured of her welcome, she wraps her fingers around the back of Jim's neck and drags him into another consuming kiss. Her tongue sweeps into his mouth dominantly and Jim licks over it...like he’s chasing a taste. The hints of Mark’s blood in her mouth?

A savage need to share, to relive that euphoria with Jim flashes through Medina's chest. 

She stretches the collar of his t-shirt out of the way, tearing the fabric carelessly, and bites into his shoulder without warning. Really clamps down and breaks the skin. Jim stills his thrusting under the assault, aching and bewildered. He cries out as Medina's tastebuds explode with a hit of ambrosia.

_Sweet, hot wine_.

She doesn’t take a chunk of flesh like she did with Mark.

No. Not Jim. He's special, like her. She can taste it.

Medina removes her teeth and leans back, licking Jim from her lips. Jim looks confused. Medina has no words to explain, but she wants to show him. Wants him to _see_. She raises a forearm to her face and bites quick and deep. Her core flares with heat and melts more completely around his pulsing cock as their individual flavours mix on her palate. Jim's hips buck involuntarily, making her release her jaws and smirk. She presses her offering to his lips.

He’s scared, Medina realizes as she gazes into his eyes. But he’s not rejecting her. Not yet. She does her best to communicate comfort in that silent way that they do. 

Jim inhales steadily and his muscles go slack. Tentatively, he licks at her arm. Medina sighs with pleasure and fights to keep her eyes open. She wants to watch.

That startled, intense gaze of his doesn’t waver from her face. Jim holds her with his eyes as deeply as his body does while he parts his lips and sucks in earnest at her wound. 

Black eyelashes sweep over glacial pools. He moans with surprised enjoyment. 

“You understand,” Medina breathes wonderingly. Jim doesn’t speak. Just stutters his hips forward and resumes his punishing pace, battering her heat. Medina’s head falls backward. “Yeah,” she says, overwhelmed with emotion. “Yeah, hard. _Like that_.”

Jim’s tongue prods at the teeth marks in her arm, coaxing more blood to the surface at the same time that his tip drags across something deep inside of her. Medina’s eyes go blind.

She convulses and comes, calling out, on her brother’s cock.

Jim whimpers at the sound of his name falling from her lips, pushes into her with one more brutal thrust and finds his own release. He snarls as he comes, a low animal rumbling. 

\--

Heather gets fed up with searching for Jim around 10:30pm. He’s either lost his phone again or turned it off. _The bastard_. He’s probably strung out somewhere crying about his sister.

There’s something weird about those two. Jim's so...attached. If he wasn’t so cute, she’d think twice about dating him.

Bucking her seatbelt with a disappointed huff, Heather looks over her shoulder and reverses out of her spot in the empty field that the party goers are using as a parking lot.

She shifts into drive when her tires hit pavement and pulls out onto the highway. It’s pitch black out here and there are no street lights on this stretch of beach front road. Accelerating slightly, she flicks on her high beams and leans forward to fiddle with the radio.

There’s no one behind her and no one in the oncoming lane. 

When she finds a station that isn’t country or whiny pop, she sighs with relief and feels some of the angry tension that she’s been carrying all night unknot along her spine.

A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision.

Heather flits her eyes back to the road and sees two figures standing on the centre line. She jerks the steering wheel abruptly and releases a wild shriek. She doesn’t hit the brakes in time.

Her little Toyota careens off of the side of the road and slams into a telephone pole. The impact drives her forehead into the steering wheel.

Heather tries to take a breath, but something sharp grates in her side and chest. Black spots dance in her eyes as she goes limp against the deployed air bag. _Stay awake, stay awake, _she chants to herself. 

Vaguely, she hears the sound of metal creaking open. A face appears in what's left of her vision. She squints, trying to focus. Those eyes—so kind and gentle. 

“Jim?” she gurgles, through the blood in her mouth. _Oh, thank god. He’ll call an ambulance_. But he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t even look panicked. “Jim?” Heather asks again.

Her boyfriend smiles blandly and leans in close like he’s going to press a kiss to her cheek. He reaches a hand into the gaping hole in her side instead.

Pain. Fingers twisting and pulling at her insides. 

Another face floats into view over Jim's shoulder. 

Jim pulls his hand out and offers his bloody prize to Medina.

Heather dies with the image of the Mason twins feasting on her flesh seared into the grey matter of her brain.

\-- 

Medina wakes in the morning feeling deeply satisfied. She groans as she rolls over and rubs her belly. She feels fit to burst. Stuffed like she usually is after Thanksgiving.

She blinks open her eyes and meets serious blue. Jim’s laying on his side staring at her. They’re both naked and covered in blood. Heat kindles in her at the sight of his sleek skin painted with crimson. At the knowledge of what they did. What they shared together.

“Folie à deux,” Medina whispers. She’d started reading her intro to psychology textbook last week.

Jim’s sleepy smile makes her feel as if he’s stroking her everywhere. She brushes her fingers along the side of his face. “I love you," she tells him. 

“I love you too.” 


End file.
